Page 12

She stares at my outstretched hand like it might bite her. I almost pull it back, thinking I've overstepped again, but then she takes it. Her hand is smaller than I expected, soft against my calluses from years of hockey sticks and lifting weights. The contrast makes something twist in my chest.

"Fine," she says, her voice quiet. "But I'm not going inside anywhere. I don't want to be seen."

The words sting a little, but I get it. This whole situation is complicated enough without adding public speculation.

"Fair enough." I keep hold of her hand as I push the door open with my shoulder. "Drive-through it is. My car's just outside."

We walk to my car in silence, the night air cool enough that I notice her slight shiver. Without a word, I shrug out of my hoodie and hold it out to her.

"I'm not cold," she says immediately.

"Your goosebumps say otherwise." I place the hoodie over her shoulders anyway. It drowns her, making her look smaller, more vulnerable.

"Now you'll be cold," she protests, though she doesn't take it off.

"I run hot." I tap the side of my head. "Hockey player, remember? Built-in furnace."

She rolls her eyes, but there's a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Right. Because hockey players aren't human—they're some superior species."

"Now you're getting it."

I open the passenger door for her, watching as she slides in and pulls the hoodie tighter around herself. The sight of her in my clothes does something to me. I try to ignore as I walk around to the driver's side.

The inside of my car isn't the cleanest—there are empty protein shake bottles in the cup holders and a gym bag in the back—but it's not the disaster it could be. Still, I find myself wishing I'd tidied up, like I knew she'd be here.

"Sorry about the mess," I say as I start the engine.

"It's fine." She glances around. "It's actually cleaner than I expected."

"What, you thought I'd be living in squalor?"

"Kind of, yeah." She shrugs. "Isn't that the hockey player stereotype? Smelly gear and energy drink cans everywhere?"

I laugh. "That's just the locker room. My apartment's actually pretty clean."

"Hmm." She sounds skeptical. There's a hint of teasing in her voice that makes me glance over. She's looking out the window, but I catch the ghost of a smile on her lips.

I pull out of the parking lot, heading toward the strip of fast food places near campus. "So, ice cream. Any preference on where we go?"

"Somewhere with a drive-through," she says, then adds, "Like McDonald's."

"McDonald's?" I can't hide my surprise. "I figured you for more of a gourmet ice cream girl."

"Why, because I'm so uptight?" There's no heat in her question, just curiosity.

"No, because you seem…particular." I choose my words carefully. "Like you know what you want and don't settle."

She's quiet for a moment. "There's something nostalgic about McDonald's soft serve. My dad used to take me after my piano recitals, even when I completely butchered the piece."

This small glimpse into her past catches me off-guard. I wasn't expecting her to share something so personal, so unguarded.

"McDonald's it is," I say, making a left turn toward the golden arches in the distance.

The drive-through line is short—a benefit of going for ice cream at nine on a weeknight. I pull up to the speaker.

"Welcome to McDonald's, what can I get for you?" a bored voice crackles through the intercom.

"Two vanilla cones, please," I say, then glance at Hannah. "Unless you want something else?"

She shakes her head. "That's fine."

I pay at the window, and the teenage employee hands us our cones with a barely-concealed yawn. I pull into a parking space at the edge of the lot, away from the main entrance where we're less likely to be seen.

"Twenty questions," I say, breaking the silence as we sit with our ice cream. "But with a twist."

She licks her cone, and I momentarily lose my train of thought watching her tongue swipe across the soft serve.

"What's the twist?" she finally asks, noticing my stare.

I blink, refocusing. "You have to answer with the first thing that comes to mind. No overthinking."

"That sounds dangerous," she says, but there's intrigue in her voice.

"That's the point."

She laughs, the sound light and genuine. "Fine. But I reserve the right to pass."

"Deal. First question: what's your biggest pet peeve?"

"People who walk slowly in the middle of the sidewalk." She answers immediately, then looks surprised at herself.

"See? Not so hard." I take a bite of my ice cream. "Your turn."

"Why hockey?" she asks.

"My dad played. I was better at it than Cade, so he pushed me harder." The honesty of my answer surprises me. I normally give some bullshit about loving the game, which is true, but not the whole truth.

"You don't have to do that, you know," she says softly.

"Do what?"

"Compare yourself to Cade. Measure everything against him."

I shrug, uncomfortable with how easily she's reading me. "Hard habit to break." Thanks to my parents for pitting us against each other.

She nods, accepting this without pushing. "Your question."

"What's something you're terrible at but love doing anyway?"

She laughs again. "Singing. I'm absolutely tone-deaf but catch me alone in my car and I'm a Grammy winner."

The image makes me smile—Hannah with her windows up, belting out lyrics. So different from the careful, measured woman beside me.

"I bet you sing country music," I tease.

"God no. '90s alternative rock. My dad's influence."

"Okay." I hold up my fist for a bump, which she gives with an exaggerated eye roll.

"What about you?" she asks. "Something you're bad at but love?"

"Dancing," I admit. "I have the rhythm of a drunk giraffe but put on 'Shook Me All Night Long' and these hips start jerking. Then I'm unstoppable."

She nearly chokes on her ice cream. "Oh my god. I need to witness this immediately."

"Never gonna happen. Your turn for a question."

We continue like this, trading questions that start innocuous but gradually dig deeper. I learn she's afraid of heights but loves roller coasters ("It's different somehow"), that she stress-bakes when exams roll around, that she wanted to be a veterinarian until she fainted during a field trip to a clinic in high school.

"Most embarrassing moment?" I ask, eating the last pieces of my cone.

She pauses, clearly weighing whether to answer honestly.

"Besides the obvious?" she finally says, and I know she's referring to our first encounter.

"Yeah, besides that. That's mine too, by the way."

She raises an eyebrow. "Really? The guy who's supposedly slept with half the campus is most embarrassed about a case of mistaken identity?"

"It's not the sex part that was embarrassing," I clarify. "It's the part where I hurt someone I care about without meaning to."

Her expression softens. "Oh."

"So—your embarrassing moment?" I prompt, not wanting to dwell on this particular line of conversation.

"I threw up on my date's shoes at senior prom," she confesses. "Turns out tequila and chocolate fountain don't mix."

I laugh, genuinely surprised. "You? Tequila?"

"Imagine that," she says with the memory playing out in her eyes. "Never again."

I study her face in the dim light. "You're not what I expected, Hannah."

"What did you expect?"

"Someone more like Cade's usual type—pretty but boring. No substance."

"That's not very nice to your brother."

I shrug. "No filter. I call it like I see it."

"And what do you see when you look at me?" she asks, her voice quieter.

I meet her eyes, and for once, I don't try to charm or deflect. "Someone who overthinks everything but still follows her heart when it counts. Someone who holds herself to impossible standards but doesn't judge others by the same measure. Someone who's afraid of taking chances but is sitting here with me anyway."

She looks away, but not before I catch the flash of vulnerability in her eyes. "You don't know me well enough to say all that."

"Am I wrong?"

She doesn't answer, which is answer enough.

We sit in silence for a moment, the night sounds filling the space between us. An owl hoots somewhere nearby, and a car drives past, its headlights briefly illuminating her face.

"It's getting late," she says finally. "I should go home. My bed is calling."

I nod, ignoring the disappointment that settles in my chest. "Okay, let's go."

We head back toward campus where her dorms are. She’s glancing at her phone, and I peak too, curious. She’s tapping away at text messages. I keep my elbow on the center console, close enough to her that our arms occasionally brush. The contact sends a current through me, making me hyperaware of her presence, of the distance between us that I want desperately to close.

But I don't. Something tells me that pushing now would be a mistake. That this fragile thing between us needs time to grow, to strengthen.

When we reach her dorm, she slips off my hoodie and hands it back to me. "Thanks for the ice cream."

"Thanks for coming," I say simply. I thought, for sure, she wasn’t going to show up. I open the door for her.

"Thank you," she grins shyly. She stands there for a moment, as if waiting for something—maybe for me to ask for a second date, to try to kiss her. Instead, I just smile.

"Do you want me to walk you?" I ask.

"No, it’s okay."

I grin, figuring that she would deny my offer.

I close the passenger door and say, "Goodnight, Hannah."

She looks surprised but nods. "Goodnight, Sanderson."

I watch her walk inside, fighting every instinct that tells me to follow, to press her against a wall and finish what we started in her room earlier. Instead, I turn get back in my car, a strange mixture of satisfaction and longing swirling in my chest.

I didn't push. I didn't rush. For once in my life, I am playing the long game. Now I just have to wait.

"What’s gotten into you," Miller asks cheerfully as I slam my locker shut.

"Yeah," I say, annoyed.

I thought I could wait and play the long game? Jokes on me. Fucking my hand isn’t doing the damn job anymore.

It’s been four fucking days.

Four days of checking my phone like some lovesick teenager. Four days of driving past her dorm like a stalker, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Four days of torturing myself with replays of our date, analyzing every word, every look, every almost-touch.

Four days of fucking silence.

He slaps my shoulder. "Seriously though, you need to get laid? Jackie has some friends I can hook you up with. It looks like you need some good lovin’."

I glance around the locker room. Only a handful of guys are left after practice—Miller, Rodriguez, Peterson, and Cory. Guys I've known for years, guys I trust.

My mind’s been racing for days.

Fuck it.

"I don’t need to get laid. I need advice," I say, dropping onto the bench.

There's a moment of stunned silence before they all burst out laughing.

"The great Sanderson Connolly needs dating advice?" Rodriguez chuckles. "Weren’t you just passing out advice the other day?"

"I didn't say it was dating advice," I mutter, though of course it is.

"Your face says it all, bro." Cory sits beside me. "Who is she?"

I hesitate, then decide to rip off the bandaid. "My brother's ex."

The laughter stops abruptly.

"Shit," Peterson says. "You mean that cute brunette? The one with the legs?"

"Hannah," I correct, not liking her being reduced to a body part, which is rich coming from me, I know.

"Damn, Connolly. Keeping it in the family?" Miller's eyebrows shoot up.

"That's messed up," Rodriguez adds, though he's grinning. "No wonder you're stressed—I wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole."

"We went out," I admit. "Dinner and then ice cream."

"Dinner and then ice cream?" Cory repeats incredulously. "You fucking took her out and didn’t mention it until now?"

"Fuck off," I say without heat.

"Well, how was it?" Cory asks.

I inhale. "It was nice."

"Nice?" Peterson makes the word sound like a disease. "Since when do you do 'nice'?"

"I don’t fucking know." I run a hand through my hair. "But it's been four days and nothing. No call, no text. I gave her my number a while ago and just…nothing."

"Forget her," Rodriguez says decisively. "There are plenty of other girls who your brother didn’t date."

I correct him. "They didn’t even fuck, so I’d barely call it dating."

Rodriguez puts his hands up in surrender.

"Maybe she's just busy?" Peterson offers. "End of semester and all that."

"Or maybe she's still hung up on your brother," Miller suggests.

"Or maybe she's just not into you," Cory adds helpfully.

"For fuck sakes, guys. What the fuck," I say dryly.

"Look," Cory says, his tone turning serious. "If you really like this girl—and I’m surprised that you do—then just talk to her. Don't wait for her to make the first move. Girls will sit pretty and wait."

"But I don't want to push," I explain. "She's skittish. Overthinks everything––"

"So?" Miller shrugs. "Make it easy for her. No pressure, just checking in."

"It's not that simple," I argue. "She's convinced I'm just after her because she's Cade's ex. Or because of…other reasons."

"Are you?" Peterson asks bluntly.

"No," I say firmly. "It's not about Cade. It's about her. It's different with her."

"They're all 'different' until they're not," Rodriguez says. "Just be careful, man. Brother's exes are complicated."

Cory studies me for a moment, then nods as if coming to a decision. "You’re fucked, man. But you need to bump into her, maybe, so you don’t seem desperate."

"Forced proximity," Peterson adds. "She needs to see you and realize what she’s missing."

"That’s the thing. I doubt she’s missing me," I admit.

"So, it’s one sided?" Peterson asks.

I sigh. "Fuck, I don’t know."

"Just promise us one thing," Miller says as we finish getting dressed. "If this blows up, don't bring the drama to the ice. We've got championships to win."

"Yeah," I agree, already formulating a plan on how to see her again. "Thanks for nothing, fuckers."

They all laugh as I head out.

As I’m walking, I try to think of places she would be. I cut the corner and recall the argument she had with my brother. Matcha.

I head to the only place on campus I think would serve a matcha green tea, knowing damn well she’s not going to be there but needing to check out the menu.

I waltz in, glancing around at the tables. I head straight to the cashier and ask, "Do you guys have matcha?"

The girl smiles at me. "We do. Small, medium, or large."

Perfect . "Small."

"Okay," she smiles, and I have to stop the urge to search social media for Hannah’s profile because that screams desperate. I lean against the counter, glancing around the place.

Where the hell are you, Hannah?

I tap the counter, reiterating the conversation I had in the locker room with the guys. Forced proximity, huh? Force her into my life somehow.

I do love a good game.